Of Tea, Tulips, and Revenge
by thevoidbetweenus
Summary: "I don't understand," the sheriff said, "what you have against the investigator. What did she do to you? When did this...obsession...begin?" The executioner snorted, looking at his interrogator with a rather bored expression. The story of the executioner, and why he hates the investigator. Implied sexual content and major character deaths.


"I don't understand," the sheriff said, "what you have against the investigator. What did she do to you? When did this...obsession...begin?"  
The executioner snorted, looking at his interrogator with a rather bored expression. "Typical of you townsfolk not to remember him...just typical."  
"Listen," the sheriff sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I just...I want to understand. You're so angry – why? Who were you referring to?"  
"You really want to know?"  
"Yes!" The woman said in exasperation. "I'm not leaving until you explain why you're so hellbent on getting an innocent woman hung."  
There was another snort. "Ordinarily I would tell you I don't care, and invite you to stare at me all night. But that will get boring very quickly – so I'll explain. Maybe you'll even understand, who knows?"  
She nodded, watching him warily. She was intrigued, but disturbed too – he was so calm and collected, even as she interrogated him – but the amount of defaced pictures on the walls, all of the investigator, and memories of his hateful slander against the poor woman reminded the sheriff of how twisted he was in reality.  
"It was a long while ago," he began, his cold blue eyes meeting her own brown and locking in place. "Back when I was still a bodyguard. I chose to guard the town lunatic, one night, on a whim – it was the best decision of my life. It's also what started this."

* * *

Two brief knocks on the door was all it took for it to swing open.  
"Hello?"  
"Greetings," said a rather gruff man, "I'm here to protect you tonight."  
This seemed to surprise the house's resident. "What? No, no – you don't need to waste your time on me," the jester said, shaking his head vehemently. His visitor noticed the slight quivering to his lips. "Death would be fine...I don't need to be protected from death."  
The bodyguard looked at him strangely. "What?"  
"Death would be nice," the jester murmured. "A sweet release. But...feel free to come inside. I can...I can make tea, or something? I hardly ever have visitors, I don't really know how to be a proper host."  
"Tea would certainly be a nice change in pace," the bodyguard mused, and he entered the house when the door was held open for him. Surprisingly, the interior was almost immaculate – almost as if there was no one living there. Most of the homes in Salem were a mess, as the bodyguard knew quite well...but this man was different.  
As it happens – he was different in many ways.  
The tea was pleasantly sweet, as was the company. The jester was engaging – turns out he was quite knowledgeable about many of those in the town. He explained rather sheepishly that since he doesn't have all that much to do, he just listens to everyone talk. He loved to chat about all the latest gossip – apparently, the doctor had visited him the other night, and told him all about how the transporter was trying to seduce as many people in town as he could with that taxi cab.  
The bodyguard couldn't say he was surprised. He offered little tidbits himself, when he could - "The jailor? Oh, yeah – he's got it bad for that vampire hunter fellow, I'm telling you."  
Of course, that made the jester laugh, and together they laughed all night, at this point simply coming up with the most outlandish rumors they could about their neighbors.  
"I swear," the jester sputtered, struggling to speak as he laughed, "the arsonist? He is in love with the sheriff, poor chap!"  
"He's in love with her? Well, I'm sure that relationship will go up in flames. Did you know the blackmailer and the spy have competitions to see who can get the most dirt on the other? Rumor has it they're dating!"  
They continued like that until morning, the night passing without incident – but the bodyguard felt something new. He had actually enjoyed himself last night...  
He did not want the jester to die.  
So foolishly, irresponsibly, he went back the next night. And the night after that, and the night after that.  
Each time, they drank tea, made stupid jokes – sometimes they just talked about life. The bodyguard talked about how unsatisfied he was with his position, but he was stuck in a rut. The jester lamented about how most of the townsfolk thought he was just a raving lunatic – which he was, in some ways, but that didn't make him bad company.  
Occasionally they would simply sit in silence, when the jester was having particularly bad days...the voices were too much, sometimes. Just too much.  
As more time passed, the bodyguard was feeling rather disillusioned towards the town. They outcast-ed this poor man because he was different than them, and accused him of being a vampire or of being in the mafia.  
"He's not what he seems," the investigator insistently implored.  
The bodyguard decided he would never guard her again, with her cruel accusations.

* * *

No one ever wasted their time attacking the jester. Yet the bodyguard returned, each night – he was becoming rather unprofessionally attached. He worried. What would happen if he didn't return one night?  
He wanted his nightly companion to know he cared. He didn't really know how to express his feelings – how to voice this...fixation of his. This infatuation. It was rather embarrassing, really, how much he thought about his newfound friend, how desperately he wanted to be more than friends.  
After several weeks of this pattern – every night, he would protect the jester – the bodyguard decided to take the plunge.  
"I like you," he stated over a pot of chamomile tea (the jester had thoughtfully remembered which kind was his favorite).  
The other man chuckled softly, offering a smile.  
"I would hope so. Otherwise I've really been wasting my tea."  
They grinned at each other across the rickety kitchen table, and the bodyguard placed a hand over the jester's. They needed no more words to express their feelings. They were content simply enjoying each other's company like always.  
The night ended with a chaste kiss and an embrace, and left both the bodyguard and the jester with a bit of newfound hope.  
Perhaps things would be okay.

* * *

The next day, the mayor revealed herself to the town. She ignored the investigator's vitriol against the jester, and instead turned her attention to a man who claimed he was a vigilante.  
The mayor was simply not having it – and she was right, the Mafioso was lynched with her guidance.  
That meant she was now a priority target...  
The bodyguard knew what he would have to do, but he dreaded it. Something bad was going to happen, he could feel it. But he had his duty. No one attempted to kill the mayor that night (she was very grateful for his protection), and he hoped to goodness that the jester was not going to be attacked on the one night he wasn't there.

* * *

Only the lookout was found dead in the morning – but the sheriff seemed grim. She took a deep breath, and announced, "I have found a member of the mafia." She pointed at the jester, whose eyes widened. He shook his head.  
"I'm not in the mafia!" He protested.  
"There were documents everywhere in your house," she said, shaking her head, "implicating your involvement with the mafia."  
"I've been telling you people for how long that he is bad," the investigator grumbled. "Only now you believe me?"  
"I must have been framed," the jester said, looking at the bodyguard helplessly. His protector decided to speak up.  
"Sounds like a clear frame job to me," he commented. "When I protected him, his house was totally clear of anything."  
"I still think he's mafia," the sheriff replied, crossing her arms. "Why would you protect someone the investigator finds suspicious, anyways?"  
The mayor sighed heavily. "We have no choice but to lynch him, if both the sheriff and the investigator find him suspicious," she decided, and the jester was led to the stand when her votes were cast.  
His hands trembled as he stood in front of the town, but he simply bowed his head and said, "No matter what I say, you won't believe me...there's no use." The bodyguard watched in horror as the guilty votes came in – and he noted furiously that the investigator had abstained, had not even taken responsibility for her stupid accusations!  
He himself voted innocent of course, as did the jailor, and the transporter – but with the sheriff, the mayor, and the likely framer voting guilty, along with a few other townspeople...  
The jester was going to die. He looked at the bodyguard sadly as he stepped onto the stool, the noose wrapped around his neck - he was at last getting his wish, but that didn't make it any less awful.  
The bodyguard found himself unable to look away as the stool was kicked and he swore those awful strangling noises were louder than usual, the life being snuffed out all the more precious. The investigator seemed pleased with herself, the wretched woman hadn't even voted. That vile witch!  
"He was innocent?" The sheriff appeared dumbfounded when the man's will was read – a small passage was dedicated to the bodyguard, of all people, who was asked to never forget him – but to try to move on someday. "I..." She looked at said man, who was still staring at the corpse of...what had they been? Now he'd never find out. "I'm sorry," she said, frowning. "There was a framer indeed...it must have been their fault."

* * *

Said framer was found dead in the morning – he had hung himself out of guilt, for framing an innocent man, or something along those lines.  
But the bodyguard knew who was really responsible.  
It was the investigator. His gaze remained on her the entire discussion period, but she seemed unfazed. She simply began accusing someone new (the jailor this time, the bodyguard noted, and his anger only grew). "Shut up," he interrupted one of her long speeches, "you obviously don't know what you're talking about. You got an innocent man hung yesterday."  
Her eyes narrowed. "That sounds like a rather suspicious thing to say," she commented.  
"As does accusing yet another innocent person," he shot back.  
The fury bubbling inside him did not wane. She had gotten the jester lynched – then had the audacity to abstain? Justice...justice must be served. The corrupt, evil woman must pay for her crimes! He shed his identity as a simple guardsman that day...  
He became the executioner.

* * *

He found himself in a jail cell that night.  
"Is the investigator right about you? Are you evil?" The jailor asked, looking at his prisoner expectantly.  
The executioner's lips pressed into a thin frown. "Do you really believe her? She accused you of being mafia despite your obvious identity. She's an idiot."  
The jailor nodded, though his posture was still wary. "What are you, then?"  
"The bodyguard," the lie slipped out easily – after all, it was his old identity...the townsfolk didn't have to know he had shed it. "I don't' believe her. I think she's not really an investigator...she needs to be lynched."  
"You can go," the other man decided, though he seemed a bit suspicious still. "I will...keep your advice in mind."

* * *

In the morning, the jailor voiced his concern to the mayor. The leader of the town seemed hesitant to act, however. "I don't know...she seems trustworthy enough, if not that accurate all the time," she said. "We should see if she gives us any more information."  
"Well, investigator," the executioner spoke, a grin unzipping his face, "what news do you have for our lovely town? What brilliancy shall you present today? Is the jailor secretly in the mafia still?"  
All eyes turned to the investigator, whose cheeks flushed pink. She missed the days of the bodyguard minding his own business. "I...well, I know that this fellow," she said, pointing at a man who almost never spoke, "likes to poke around the graveyard. He's probably a janitor."  
"Um..." The man looked vaguely uncomfortable now. "You caught me? I'm the medium," he said, clasping his hand together. He glanced at the executioner. "I wanted to talk to you last night, about what the jester said, but you were in jail. I'm sorry. I'm certainly no janitor – I can't clean to save my life."  
"She certainly enjoys accusing everyone," the executioner chirped, his grin not fading. "Thank you, medium. I'm sure the real mafia will kill you now, since their consigliere has done so well in identifying us all."  
"What are you insinuating?" The investigator glared at her accuser.  
"It just seems interesting that all the people you are accusing are actually innocent," was the reply, and there seemed to be a universal agreement.  
"I interrogated her," the sheriff said, shaking her head. "She's not suspicious."  
"If the sheriff says she isn't, she isn't," the mayor said, smiling warmly at the other woman, who turned faintly pink. "Well, that's well and good," the executioner shrugged. "That does not change the fact that she has given us faulty information plenty of times before."  
Unsurprisingly, no one was lynched that day. The town seemed to have come to a standstill – there was so much conflicting information that it was almost impossible to determine actual leads from false ones.

* * *

The executioner wasn't visited again at night until at least a month later – this time by the transporter, who gave a quiet knock on his door.  
"What?" the executioner snapped. He noticed the transporter's look of questioning when the other man saw several pictures of the investigator with a large 'X' through them on the wall, but he ignored it. The transporter took it as a sign of grumpiness and shrugged it off.  
"Sorry to bovver you, but I've got an open taxi cab and I think you could use a bit o' fresh air," he said, grinning. He so loved his job. The executioner was nowhere near as enthused, but he decided not to refuse anyhow.  
"I suppose," he acquiesced. He allowed himself to be led out to the taxi cab, and he was reminded of the his very first conversation with the jester when he entered the back seat - he still wasn't sure if he should credit the rumors.  
"So," the transporter said as he began to drive, interrupting his passenger's train of thought, "you really seem to hate that investigator woman," he observed. "You really think she's the consigliere?"  
"Yes," the executioner said without hesitation. "She keeps saying the jailor is in the mafia, which is simply absurd. She must want to get him hung for her fellow mafia."  
"Hm...I see your point," the driver said, shrugging. "You're an interesting fella, Mr..."  
"I'm the bodyguard."  
"You've got awful strong conviction for a bodyguard! But 's not my place to question you." The transporter laughed quietly. "'Sides, you're too handsome to be evil."  
The executioner was a bit thrown off by this...rather direct flirting. His cheeks flushed, and he was grateful for the cover of darkness. "Mm...where are you taking me, anyways?"  
"Oh, I've got a place in mind...your house isn't safe tonight, chap," the cab driver responded, amused by the deflection of the compliment. "So, I'll take you somewhere safe, aye?"  
"Whatever you say."  
They ended up in the graveyard of all places in town – the executioner couldn't for the life of him figure out why the transporter had brought him here. However, when the smooth cab driver slid into the back seat next to him, he began to catch on.  
"I just want to talk," the transporter said earnestly. "I want to get to know you a bit better...you're such a recluse nowadays. You've always been grumpy, but you hardly ever leave your house."  
The executioner could feel his cheeks warm as the other man got closer. "...I have my reasons. No one believes me anymore," he muttered. "The thanks I get for protecting the mayor is-"  
"Having your boyfriend lynched?" The transporter guessed. "You were with the jester, aye? Or you wanted to be? Somethin' like that?"  
"You remember him?" His passenger asked, his eyes lighting up. Most of the town had forgotten all about the innocent man they killed.  
"How could I not? I saw how torn up you were...and that investigator seemed mighty proud of herself for getting him lynched...I figured somethin' was up," the transporter replied. He placed a hand over the executioner's clammy one, smiling comfortingly. "I know this 's rather late, but – if you ever need a shoulder to lean on, I've got you. Even if...you're not the bodyguard anymore," he said. "I'm not trying to suggest that I can ever replace the jester, o' course," he added hastily. "Jus' thought I'd offer."  
The executioner seemed lost for words for a few moments. Someone remembered, someone noticed, perhaps someone cared, understood even...? He realized how small the taxi was, then, and how stuffy it was, and how close the transporter was to him -  
"Thank you," he managed, again thankful for the night veiling his face. "I think...if I'd been given more time with him, I would have loved him," he said at last. "We kissed once, but we were friends for some time already...I felt like I'd known him my whole life. Everything had been falling into place, you know?"  
The transporter squeezed his passenger's hand out of genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry, chap...that's awful."  
"It's all the investigator's fault," the executioner growled, his eyes narrowing. "All her fault...she ruined everything."  
This seemed to give the cab driver an idea. "Y'know..." He said after a few pensive moments, "I think it'd do you some good to get your mind off of her...just for a little while. Say, a night."  
The other man's eyebrows furrowed. Truthfully, he couldn't think of a time since the jester died that he hadn't been focused on his hatred for the investigator...perhaps the transporter was right. But what else was there?  
"I can help you with that," the transporter continued, edging closer. "Just...relax," he murmured. "Focus on me, yeah? Not on some stupid investigator."  
When the executioner felt a kiss on his neck (which felt decidedly pleasant), he opted to relent, and enjoy this. Thoughts of the investigator vanished, replaced by images of a wily transporter who had definitely been right.

* * *

The next day, the executioner was surprisingly quiet regarding the investigator. He seemed to have his mind on other things, which the transporter was rather relieved about. His plan had worked...and he was rather glad that he had transported the man in the first place, as a serial killer had tried to attack, only to hit the forger whom he had brought there instead. When this death was announced, the executioner gave the transporter a grateful glance.  
Unsurprisingly, the investigator began her rant about how the jailor was actually the blackmailer, which the town mostly ignored. The mayor was starting to get annoyed by the woman, the executioner could tell – but he wasn't filled with his ordinary glee regarding this fact. He was far more interested in whether he would be visited again tonight, for which he hoped the answer would be yes. He didn't even vote against her like he usually did – the rest of the town seemed to notice this, and were rather quizzical.  
After several minutes in which no one voted, the mayor opted to randomly vote for a man who claimed he was neutral – just there to survive. He protested heavily, but was eventually led up to the stand. The investigator seemed quite on board with this. As always, the sheriff placed her trust in the mayor, hanging close to the other woman and lightly touching her arm in support.  
"He's definitely lying," she stated.  
Of course, he wasn't lying, in the end – but he was lynched anyways. The poor survivor choked on his last words of "blast you!" and the discussion period ended with that, leaving a sour taste in most of the town's mouth.  
To lose the survivor was not that big of a deal, but their investigator was wrong once again.

* * *

The knock on the door that night made the executioner grin. His hopes had indeed been answered – there stood the transporter, this time dressed up a bit nicer. He held flowers in his hand, which he thrust into the surprised resident's hands. "To show that it meant more than a one night stand," he explained simply, smiling sheepishly. The other man definitely appreciated the gesture.  
They went out driving again, this time into the countryside just outside of the town. Now the executioner was in the passenger's seat, and when they parked they opted to just watch the stars, holding hands and chatting.  
The executioner still felt his hatred for the investigator simmering in the background...  
But he also couldn't help but feel that if the jester were watching him right now, he'd be happy, because finally he was starting to feel like something besides a hollow shell of a man.  
"So..." The transporter said, ending the lull in their conversation, "was...last night the first time you've ever slept with someone?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow. "You seem awfully dreamy 'bout it...I've never had anyone react that way before. Not that I'm not pleased about that, o' course –"  
"It was," the executioner affirmed, shrugging. "Before yesterday I'd only ever kissed someone. And that was once." He rested his head on the transporter's shoulder.  
"Ah..." The other man seemed rather surprised by this. "Well, I meant what I said you know. I don't want you to think it was just a one night stand sort of deal, unless you'd prefer that."  
"No...I like this," was the reply.  
Whatever..."this," was...it was pleasant. And so they chatted some more, now about far more casual topics, and they realized they had quite a lot in common (besides mutual physical attraction) – they both loved tulips, for instance. After several hours, the transporter reluctantly took the executioner home, and kissed the other man goodnight, leaving a grin on both of their faces.

* * *

The knock on the door that night made the executioner grin. His hopes had indeed been answered – there stood the transporter, this time dressed up a bit nicer. He held flowers in his hand, which he thrust into the surprised resident's hands. "To show that it meant more than a one night stand," he explained simply, smiling sheepishly. The other man definitely appreciated the gesture.  
They went out driving again, this time into the countryside just outside of the town. Now the executioner was in the passenger's seat, and when they parked they opted to just watch the stars, holding hands and chatting.  
The executioner still felt his hatred for the investigator simmering in the background...  
But he also couldn't help but feel that if the jester were watching him right now, he'd be happy, because finally he was starting to feel like something besides a hollow shell of a man.  
"So..." The transporter said, ending the lull in their conversation, "was...last night the first time you've ever slept with someone?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow. "You seem awfully dreamy 'bout it...I've never had anyone react that way before. Not that I'm not pleased about that, o' course –"  
"It was," the executioner affirmed, shrugging. "Before yesterday I'd only ever kissed someone. And that was once." He rested his head on the transporter's shoulder.  
"Ah..." The other man seemed rather surprised by this. "Well, I meant what I said you know. I don't want you to think it was just a one night stand sort of deal, unless you'd prefer that."  
"No...I like this," was the reply.  
Whatever..."this," was...it was pleasant. And so they chatted some more, now about far more casual topics, and they realized they had quite a lot in common (besides mutual physical attraction) – they both loved tulips, for instance. After several hours, the transporter reluctantly took the executioner home, and kissed the other man goodnight, leaving a grin on both of their faces.

* * *

The knock on the door that night made the executioner grin. His hopes had indeed been answered – there stood the transporter, this time dressed up a bit nicer. He held flowers in his hand, which he thrust into the surprised resident's hands. "To show that it meant more than a one night stand," he explained simply, smiling sheepishly. The other man definitely appreciated the gesture.  
They went out driving again, this time into the countryside just outside of the town. Now the executioner was in the passenger's seat, and when they parked they opted to just watch the stars, holding hands and chatting.  
The executioner still felt his hatred for the investigator simmering in the background...  
But he also couldn't help but feel that if the jester were watching him right now, he'd be happy, because finally he was starting to feel like something besides a hollow shell of a man.  
"So..." The transporter said, ending the lull in their conversation, "was...last night the first time you've ever slept with someone?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow. "You seem awfully dreamy 'bout it...I've never had anyone react that way before. Not that I'm not pleased about that, o' course –"  
"It was," the executioner affirmed, shrugging. "Before yesterday I'd only ever kissed someone. And that was once." He rested his head on the transporter's shoulder.  
"Ah..." The other man seemed rather surprised by this. "Well, I meant what I said you know. I don't want you to think it was just a one night stand sort of deal, unless you'd prefer that."  
"No...I like this," was the reply.  
Whatever..."this," was...it was pleasant. And so they chatted some more, now about far more casual topics, and they realized they had quite a lot in common (besides mutual physical attraction) – they both loved tulips, for instance. After several hours, the transporter reluctantly took the executioner home, and kissed the other man goodnight, leaving a grin on both of their faces.

* * *

They went on like that for several weeks. Of course, sometimes the transporter wouldn't show – but he'd always leave a note of explanation, and apologies, and often these notes were accompanied by cookies, or tulips, or some sort of gift. Sometimes they stayed in, cuddling on the couch and sipping tea. Things were going so well - they were happy, or as happy as a couple could be in Salem.  
However, there was one night where the note seemed to have a different air.

 _"Sorry I can't be there tonight..._  
 _I think someone is after the jailor. I've got to put a stop to it, of course...there's only one thing I can do this time though, unless I want to sacrifice the mayor or someone else important._  
 _I'm so, so sorry to do this. I would much rather be there with you, trust me."_

The investigator had continued her accusations against the jailor, and no one really seemed to be listening...except, of course, one man: the vigilante.  
That morning, the transporter's corpse was lugged out of the jailor's house, displayed to everyone. The executioner felt his world crashing down on him a second time – and yet again, he couldn't help but stare at the cold, dead body, this time covered in blood...this time it was even worse. He knew that man intimately, could tell someone all about his freckles, and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, and how ticklish his stomach was, and how he had a scar on his chest from a brush up with a serial killer, and so much more, and...now he was gone. Taken away from him by...by the investigator. It was her fault. The jailor seemed horrified.  
. "I didn't realize he'd been protecting me," he said, and all eyes turned to the self -proclaimed vigilante, who seemed like he was going to be sick.  
"I..." He hung his head in his hands. "I'm sorry."  
While the executioner knew that this time it was mostly the vigilante's fault, the white-hot anger for the investigator returned full force. "You!" He cried, pointing at her, "you kept falsely accusing the jailor! You're the reason for this!"  
The sheriff shook her head, and she read off the will of the transporter, who had detailed his activities, and left a small passage dedicated to "anonymous."  
"It's not the invest's fault," she grumbled, looking rather irritated. "It's that fool who shot him," she said, gesturing to the vigilante.  
The mayor asserted her agreement, and that ended the conversation. Shockingly, this did not sate the executioner's blood-lust.  
When the discussion ended, with the investigator still breathing, he stormed into his house in a fury. Most pictures returned to their place on the wall, while more were shredded – a vase with half-wilted tulips was shattered, blood dripping to the floor, but no one noticed the ruckus going on the "bodyguard's" house. He collapsed into his bed that night, unsure if he should be screaming or sobbing or feeling nothing at all. Everything had been taken from him again, and any part of him that was capable of affection or remorse was vanquished.

* * *

"That's it," the executioner finished his tale calmly, still levelling a stare at the sheriff, whose mouth was agape.  
"I see," she said at last.  
"Something tells me you don't really see. But it's all her fault. All of this, due to the investigator," the man seemed rather bored again. She chewed on her lip.  
What was she supposed to do now?  
He had just told her that heart wrenching story, only to appear unaffected by it himself. Was he really so jaded at this point...?  
Of course, the answer was yes. He'd likely never open his heart again. But he was a potential ally, all the same. He could handle himself against killers at night, he seemed to have a strong sense of justice in his own way – but was the price of his loyalty too high?  
"I'll just be on my way," the sheriff decided. She stood up, leaving the deranged man in front of her to his thoughts for the night.  
She herself had much to think about.

* * *

The next morning, the sheriff seemed determined. The investigator was now accusing the veteran of being the mafioso.  
So, the sheriff voted against the investigator when the time came, surprisingly backing up the executioner. The mayor seemed surprised by this – but she trusted the sheriff entirely, so she voted against the investigator as well, who was then led to the stand.  
"I'm the investigator," she cried – because, well, she was.  
The sheriff knew this.  
She still voted guilty.  
The executioner watched as the noose was tied around the investigator's neck, practically salivating – justice was going to be served. As She choked out her final breaths he laughed – finally, finally, FINALLY!  
As expected, she truly was the investigator.  
But she had been the worst investigator Salem had ever seen, so the sheriff felt no remorse, and neither did the mayor. They went to their homes with fingers entwined, content with the day's work. The sheriff felt it was worth it - she had made a friend in the executioner that day.  
With that, at last, the executioner had won. Revenge at last, his bloodlust sated...  
And as a reward, he decided that he would help the sheriff and mayor from then on. After all, he had once been a member of the town...it wouldn't hurt to side with them.


End file.
